


The price of freedom

by Eir (Ithilinne)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Gen, Kaer Morhen, Multi, Other, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex, Toussaint (The Witcher), Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-08-14 09:28:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20190037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ithilinne/pseuds/Eir
Summary: A contract from Eskel's past comes back to haunt him. Eskel will need to face the consequences of his past actions, meet the woman he left behind and face a threat that could end the Witcher race.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This history is centered in Eskel and set in two different time periods: During the main events of The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt and ten years after. Spoilers from the games and the books ahead. 
> 
> I will be updating twice a week.

**Chapter 1**

Maigrit writhed in her carriage seat, not quite finding a posture that didn’t make her back hurt. She had been traveling for days and though she traveled comfortably, as it befitted to a merchant of her wealth and standing, the road had started to weigh on her. She longed for a comfortable bed, more so than those of the inns. She missed the warming sun of Toussaint, the bright green of its grass, the azurite color of its rivers. The smell of the vine grapes. Instead she could only see the permanently grey skies of Temeria, the light rain, the cold wind even though it was still summer. “It will be worse once we reach Velen” – she thought - “Even sadder, even greyer.”

She knew. For Velen, once, had been her home.

Maigrit sighed and removed her gaze from the window of the carriage. She took again her Book of Coin and started reviewing it. Coming herself to visit the merchants had been a good idea. She had been a master vintner for only four years, and she had owned her own vineyard only for two. The sales were good, specially of her spiced warm wine, which had started to become famous in the northern kingdoms. But she still needed to make a name for herself. “A good wine, spiced to provide warmth, perfect to the winter months”- she thought while reviewing the numbers -“Not surprising that it sells good in the north. Maybe I should...”

The neighing of the horses and the sudden halt of the cart startled her. She closed the book slowly, listening quietly. Silence was broken by one of her two guards.

“Who comes?” The guard said sternly. For a moment, there was silence. Maigrit heard the clank of a horse approaching. Then, the sound of a sword being drawn out of its scabbard. The gurgling of the guard, and a body falling from a horse.

The other guard screamed. Horses neighed, swords were drawn and started clashing. She pulled the knife she always had attached to her belt and tried to calm herself. She knew that neither robbery nor death was the worst that could happen to her. In her early thirties, Maigrit was still a comely woman. Not one of those eternal, perfect beauties as sorceresses were. This could be achieved only by magic, and she was no sorceress. But still, she was young and pleasant to the eye. Not that bandits cared anyway. She could have been just nine years old and flat as a plank, or eighty-five and lacking one eye, they would rape her anyway.

It felt like an eternity, but it couldn’t have been more than two minutes. She had two guards and a cart driver, but the bandits were at least four men. Well trained and fast. She knew, for she was taught to count the number of swords by the sound they make when drawn, the number of men by the sound of their footsteps, their training by the clashes of the swords. She learnt all that and much more, years ago, in another life. When she wasn’t Madame du Rosabianca, but just Maigrit.

The door of her carriage burst open, in front of it a bandit taking all the space. Maigrit pressed her back against the other end of the carriage, holding her knife in front of her. Her trembling hands betrayed her. The bandit noticed and grinned through his greasy mustache.

“My my, what do we have ‘ere?” He chuckled and stared at her intently, studying all her features. In a flash, he threw himself into the carriage, slapped her hand and tossed her knife away. He took her by the hair, dragged her outside and threw her on the floor. She found herself at the foot of four bandits.

“Hold her.” The man with the mustache said. “Let me see if it’s her.” Two of the bandits stood on each side, took her by her arms and put her on her knees. One of them pulled her hair back, forcing her to look at the man with the mustache.

“Early thirties… Short stature… Slim, but not skinny… What is that? - She felt his boot at the end of her back – good hips, and a full bottom. Just as I like ‘em”

The other men chuckled. Those who held her gripped stronger. The man with the mustache kept describing her, as if she was a cow in a farm market. Or in a slaughterhouse. “Pale, brown eyes and light brown hair. Small lips, thin face and pleasant features. Uhm… - he seemed to think for a moment – Looks like her. Wait, what’s that?”

The man with the mustache crouched in front of her. He smelled of sweat, smoke, ale and death. His hands and his gambeson had blood stains. Some were fresh – the blood of her guards, who had faithfully followed her in her journey-, some were old. Maigrit jerked her face away when he touched her cheek, looking at him defiantly. He grinned and held her face, digging his rugged fingers into her cheeks, forcing her to look at him.

She started breathing heavily, her chest moving up and down. But she still looked at him defiantly. He could have everything he wanted of her, but not her dignity. And not her fear. The man slowly released the pressure from his fingers and started to move his hand downwards. First around her neck, then to her bosom. He put his hand into her bodice and started caressing her breasts. She looked at him defiantly, trying not to betray her fear, her disgust, her sorrow. The man grinned again, took the chain that laid around her neck and pulled out the medallion that rested in between her breasts, hidden below her bodice.

The man with the mustache smiled, feeling the pendant on his hand. “A wolf medallion” - he said, looking at it. He released the medallion, stood up and glanced at her for a moment. Then looked at his men.

“Bind her.”

**********

Her ankle ached. The rope was tied so tight it had burnt her skin and her foot was swollen. She had been tied to the tree for… two days? Two days, though she didn’t know how long the horse ride from her carriage to the bandit camp was. With a bag over her head, unable see or breath properly, it had felt like an eternity.

The bandits had been all but kind. They barely fed her scraps and moldy bread, mocking her when the cold night came and she needed to sleep tied to the tree, far from the fire. It wasn’t the most comfortable living and resting arrangement, but it wasn’t either the first time she had been cold, hungry, or slept outside. The bandits obviously thought she had always been wealthy, so they weren’t aware of her past. However, they hadn’t raped her, or killed her, or both. Instead, they had kept her. This wasn’t a common Velen road robbery. Something was amiss.

Maigrit heard the voices of the bandits coming closer. They were dragging a man with a bag over his head and his hands tied with rope on his back. She couldn’t see his face, but by his clothes he looked like a guard, maybe a mercenary. He was fit and muscular and moved in a way that betrayed he was used to walk with the weight of a sword. He wore a black long-armed cuirass made of leather, reinforced with steel tacks and metal plates in the shoulders. His trousers were made of leather, also of the same color. The boots were clearly elvish craftsmanship, in the way they like it: up until mid-calf and full of buckles. The seemed to be black as well, if one was to guess the color underneath all that mud.

“Son of a bitch, even drunk as fuck he was difficult to catch” - barked the bandit leader throwing the man against the tree, next to Maigrit - “They warned us to go hard at him. I took ten men with me and left only those two drunks here with the wench. Yet this fucktard managed to kill six of them even though he almost couldn’t stand on his feet.”

The bandit leader punched him hard in the stomach. The man bent and fell to his knees but did not betray a sound. One of the bandits took a rope, grabbed the man’s hands and tied them to the tree. He remained still, his hands on his back, his head still covered by a bag. Maigrit noticed he was touching the rope with his fingers.

The bandit leader pulled out the bag from his head and spat next to him. The man said nothing, still on his knees. Maigrit had now a better look on him. He was on his early or mid-forties. His hair was black and short, with a receding hairline, his beard unkempt, like that of a man who hasn’t shaved in a good couple of weeks. From the side she couldn’t see his eyes - “brown, most probably” she thought, by the dark color of his hair and pale skin - but she could see that he had an aquiline nose and full lips.

“And you?” - She hadn’t noticed that one of the bandits was standing right in front of her. “What ar’ we going to do with you? Three days ‘ere, with us, yet still a maiden...”

Three other bandits who were standing close by chuckled and approached. Maigrit moved back instinctively, sitting with her back against the tree. “Boss!” - screamed the bandit, without stopping to look at her - “I knows the contract says not to harm ‘er, but hump ‘er is not harm ‘er. She’ll make it alive...”

“Just a bit sore!” - interjected another bandit. They roared at the joke.

The leader, who was sitting in the fire next to the last drunken, snoring bandit, looked back. He thought for a moment.

“Fine.” - He said at last – “But don’t choke her, don’t kill her and for fuck’s sake, do not stick into her anything else than your cocks. It ended terribly last time.”

Maigrit chocked in her fear. She tried to stop her tears, but couldn’t. She looked at the other prisoner next to her, silently begging for help. He was staring at her.

He had cat eyes.

************

It was going to happen. The bandits had been talking incessantly about it all the way to the camp. The wench this, the wench that. “Have you seen those hips? I bet she can give you a son as strong as a lion.” “Yeah, like you are going to stick around until she pops a baby.” “Must be important if we couldn’t touch ‘er right when we catch ‘er.” “A merchant’s daughter, maybe she should be intact to get the ransom.” “She is too old to be a maiden dumbass, she must be somebody’s wife. A baron or a knight’s.” “Maiden, wife or crone, I’ll fuck her anyways.” Roars. Explicit and detailed comments.

“What are we going to do with you? Three days ‘ere, with us, yet still a maiden...”

The woman dragged herself back instinctively, her back against the tree. She had been here for a few days, that was obvious. Her dress was dirty, though surprisingly intact; they hadn’t tried to disrob her. It was a simple, dark green dress trimmed in gold on the cuffs, the neckline and the lowest part of the skirt. It had long arms and a bodice that covered above her bosom, leaving out the need of a chemise. A dress simple and comfortable, made for traveling, but of undoubted quality and craftsmanship. Her hair was -or had been, most exactly – tucked and pinned around a golden headband. Now it was dirty and disheveled, with locks of hair falling out over her shoulders.

“Fine." - the bandit leader said - "But don’t choke her, don’t kill her and for fuck’s sake, do not stick in her anything else than your cocks. It ended terribly last time.”

“Here we go” he thought. His eyes met hers, and for a moment she froze. But he did not sense the fear or contempt he usually felt when somebody looked at his eyes. Instead, he felt she knew who he was. He felt she trusted him.

She screamed and kicked when the bandits pulled her by her arms, who soon noticed she wasn’t an easy prey. They dragged her through the ground, closer to the fire. She kicked a bandit who tried to get hold of her legs.

“Bitch!”- he screamed, instinctively reaching for his sword. Then he remembered she was not to be killed and resumed trying to grasp her.

“Don’t fight, girl. Don’t fight” - he thought, feeling his wrists warming as Igni started to burn the rope away. “They will rape you and punish you. They will do it harder, they will do it rougher. And they might not kill you but they’ll surely beat the crap out of you. Don’t fight, girl. Don’t fight.”

“Holy shit, stop you bitch!” Two of the bandits had managed to pin her on the ground, on her back, gripping her arms. She had just kicked – again – the bandit who was trying to grab her legs. The other bandit was already unfastening his trousers. The drunken one was still snoring peaceably, unaware of all the commotion. But the bandit leader had had enough.

“Four able men and you can’t pin a damned woman to the ground?”- He said approaching - “Fucking retards.” He gripped one of her legs, and when she tried to kick him with the other, he got a hold of her. He knelt between her legs, each of them firmly gripped between his arms and his body.

“Hold her legs” - he said looking at the bandits next to him. The kicked one gripped her fast and hard, savoring his victory. The one fidgeting with his trousers, aware of the preeminence of authority, left the buckles alone and gripped the other. The woman tried to move, still fighting.

“I actually prefer it when they fight back. If not, what is the difference between this and a brothel? Apart of the price, of course” - the leader chuckled, gripped her bodice firmly and tore it apart. The bandits stared at her exposed breasts while the leader unbuckled his pants. The drunken bandit snored.

“Keep fighting, girl. Keep fighting…”

Nobody was looking at him. This was the moment. He stood up, approached silently and took the drunken bandit’s sword. He covered his mouth while he cut his throat. The man died without a sound.

He leaped, rolled, knelt in one knee and slashed the leader with a diagonal cut. The man stood there for a moment, on his knees, his manhood on his hand.

*************

He unfastened his trousers, pulled them down and took his manhood with his hand. Suddenly he stopped moving, his face contorted in a strange grin. Maigrit noticed a black figure, crouched behind the bandit leader, sword raised. Not even standing up, the figure inserted the sword obliquely into the bandit holding her right leg. The sword severed his spine and pierced his heart. He stood up, held fast the sword by its grip, and with a pirouette that gave him momentum slashed the bandit holding her left leg with brutal force, almost decapitating him.

She saw him for a moment. It was the witcher. She noticed the swift movement of his fingers and turned her face to one side, closing her eyes. A burst of Aard threw the bandits holding her arms backwards. The witcher leaped over her, rolled and stood up next to one of the bandits. He impaled him through his heart before he could stand up. The other bandit tried to raise up but met a swift end when the blade slashed his face.

Maigrit stood still, still lying. In a heartbeat, the witcher was back, standing at her feet, the blade dripping blood on the mud. He looked at her, but not at her face. He was staring at her exposed breasts. She grew afraid for a moment. Was he…? She had no strength left to fight. But the witcher wasn’t staring at her breasts. He was staring at her medallion.

It was so fast she didn’t even see it. The witcher jumped and kneeled over her, immobilizing her arms. She could feel his weight on her chest, making breathing difficult and moving impossible. He put the sword to her neck.

“Why do you have this medallion?” - he growled. His eyes pierced her. Maigrit looked at him but said nothing.

“Speak!” - he pressed the blade against her neck. She felt the edge of the sword cutting her skin.

“A witcher gave it to me!” - she cried finally.

“Bullshit. No witcher would give away his medallion.”

“One did.” - this time she spoke softly, her voice betraying sadness, or maybe longing - “As a token of his affection.”

The witcher looked at her pensive. “When.” - he growled again. Maigrit said nothing. She felt the pressure of the blade increasing.

“When!”

The tone of the witcher made clear that next time, he would slash. Maigrit gave in.

“10 years ago, by the human calendar. 10 years ago, in a summer, in Toussaint.”

**************

The witcher released his grip, moved away and approached one of the dead bandits. He started rummaging through his pockets, trying to find something of valor. The woman sat and held together her broken bodice, trying to cover her exposed torso. He admitted to himself he’d only noticed the medallion because he was, in fact, looking at her breasts.

“I believe you.” - he finally broke the silence – "A brother of mine came back to our fortress 10 years ago without his medallion. He claimed he’d lost it fighting in a swamp. A blatant lie, though he obviously had stuck his sword somewhere wet…"

He looked at her with an ugly grin, expecting her reaction. He had seen her fight and was curious about how she’d lash back at him. The woman frowned at the crassness of his comment, but she didn’t respond in kind.

“You must be Lambert.” - she said calmly, staring at him.

Lambert turned his head and fixed his gaze in the dead bandit, bewildered at her calm response and the fact that she knew his name. He pretended to be still looking through the man’s pockets. “So, he told you about me. Tell me, what did he say?”

“He said you are a prick” - Lambert snorted - “But that he’d give his life for yours.”

Lambert smiled quietly and moved to another bandit. He kept rummaging through their pockets, keeping the coin he found. She didn’t move. She didn’t talk, but she didn’t cry either.

“You must have a name, don’t you? Who are you?”

“My name is Maigrit du Rosabianca.” - she said - “I am a master vintner in Toussaint.”

“You are a long way from Toussaint, madame.” - said Lambert, standing up and looking for his swords - “So I am guessing you weren’t traveling only with your dress. Whatever you had on your cart must be somewhere around here. Change your clothing, take what you can carry and let’s go. You are coming with me.”

Maigrit stood up still holding her bodice and looked around. She started to walk to a chest she recognized. “So, you have noticed as well.”

“Of course” - Lambert said, fastening his newly found swords to his back - “You and I, kidnapped together? That’s no coincidence.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lambert and Maigrit leave the bandit camp. Ten years before, Maigrit meets Eskel for the first time.

“Damn my luck” - thought Lambert - “Damn my fucking luck.” A cold, wet draft had risen, announcing a storm. He started to shiver.

Maigrit had found her chests among all the other goods the bandits had stolen. She had changed her torn dress for a pair of dark brown riding trousers, made of good leather, a white chemise and a dark red doublet, cut right below the hips and comfortable for riding, tailored specifically for her. That was obvious, by the way it embraced her waist and held her bosom. She finished dressing with a pair of elvish boots buckled until her knees and grabbed a wool cloak.

“Garments of undoubtedly good quality” – Lambert had thought smiling - “Finally a good-looking, wealthy client. Inns, warm food and cozy beds all the way to Kaer Morhen. I doubt that a rich lady would feel like sleeping in a ditch having roots for dinner.” However, she smashed his dreams soon enough.

“We need to keep out of the main road” - she said filling a saddlebag - “Away from settlements and inns. Specially from inns.”

“Why?” - There was inquisitiveness and reproach on equal parts in Lambert’s question.

“Because they tracked me down.” - She said calmly. She stopped filling the saddlebag and remained quiet for a moment, in silence, lost in her thoughts.

“Nobody knew of my time with Eskel. I haven’t seen him…” - She paused for a moment. Lambert noticed an almost imperceptible crack in her voice – “I haven’t seen him since he gave me his medallion. Yet somebody found me, tailed me for the Crones know how long, waited patiently until the moment was right, and kidnapped me.”

She stood up and put the saddlebags over her shoulder with some effort. “A woman in toussainti clothes and a man with cat eyes and two swords on his back. Tell me, how common is that? They’d be on us before breakfast. Now move. Let’s find a couple of horses.”

He couldn’t argue with that. She was right. They had been riding for half a day, off the beaten path, trying to put distance between them and the bandit camp. The road – or more precisely, the trail – consisted in no more than a thin line of dry sand among the swamps, barely enough for two horses, or a peasant’s small cart. Not many people went through here. And even less made it out alive, this was for sure. Lambert could hear distant gurgles, an occasional splash. A greenish blink far in the swamp.

Velen was not only a shithole, it was a shithole full of monsters. And the dark was coming.

“We need to leave the swamp before it gets dark. The…”

“I know.” - interjected Maigrit.

Lambert felt a flash of anger. What could she know? She was just a Toussainti wench who somehow made it into a witcher’s bed. He lashed back at her.

“You know? Well, enlighten this ignorant witcher, master vintner. Why should we be as far as possible from this swamp once the night falls?”

She looked at him for a moment, then back at the trail. “Well, there are the drowners, of course, and the water hags. But what worries you the most must be the foglets. Many have grown old and mean in these swamps. Don’t fret, however. If we are where I think we are, there aren’t any foglets here. Wraiths, however…”

Lambert stared at her, speechless. They rode in silence for a while.

“The bogs are clearing” - he said finally pointing forward them - “Soon we’ll leave the swamp.”

The twisted, damp trees and the high reeds started disappearing as the horses walked up a small hillock. The sun was setting, but there was light enough to see the landscape. It was the typical greyish green, poor look of the wetlands of Velen, dotted by small bogs, rotten bushes and destitute despair. Velen has always been no man’s land. Even before the war. Maigrit sighed, looking at the horizon. Lambert felt it was better to leave her with her thoughts. After a while, she pointed forward.

“See this road? It’s Kimbolt’s Way. If we go North following the riverbank we’ll reach Oxenfurt. South – she pointed towards a big area, absolutely devoid of even the smallest strand of grass – lies Anchor. Do you see this plain, nothing but soiled earth and mud?” -Lambert nodded- “This was the Nilfgardiaan army camp during the last war. 10 years, and the grass hasn’t grown back yet.”

Lambert was impressed but couldn’t help uttering a sarcastic comment. “A historian, I see. Or a geographer. Are all women so exquisitely educated in Toussaint?”

Maigrit turned her face towards him. She stared at his cat eyes for what it felt like an eternity, reigning on her horse while the dusk breeze moved loose locks of her hair around her neck. Lambert started to feel watched. Scrutinized. Uneasy.

“I am not Toussainti” - she said calmly, her eyes piercing him – “I am Temerian. I was born a poor peasant in Velen, in a settlement not far from Fylke Island. So mock my words as much as you want, witcher. But before you do it, remember: this is my home.”

Maigrit spurred her horse, who started trotting towards the road down the hillock. Lambert stayed a bit behind. “How did you end up in Toussaint, then?”

She answered, not looking back.

“Eskel took me there.”

**************** 

Spinning was - everybody could agree to it- not the most entertaining of endeavors, but one could do it while indoors, comfortably sitting next to the fireplace. This was a clear advantage over ploughing the fields, herding sheep or tending to the animals in the barn. Even if it was tedious and lonely. But she liked loneliness.

It was close to mid-day when the usual dullness of a spinning day was cut by a stir outside the hut. Women talking loudly, gasps, children screaming and a cacophony of feet running towards the entrance of the village. Maigrit left the distaff and the spindle on the floor, took her cloak and went out the hut.

Everybody was gathered at the entrance of the village, looking towards the path to Oreton, were the elder was standing looking at a man approaching on the road. She could not see him well, but she could see he rode on a magnificent horse. It was tall, dark as a winter night, with a long crest and strong legs. It trotted gracefully, almost dancing.

The man reached the edge of the town and dismounted. He was tall and powerfully built, with short brown hair and no beard. He would have been a handsome man, if it wasn’t for his stern look and the scar that disfigured half his face. Unlike his regal-looking horse, his attire looked like it had seen better days. He wore a red leather jerkin with vertical stripes of brown leather, reinforced with steel tacks and spikes of black metal that went down from his shoulders down to almost his elbows. Two metal plates protected his knees, attached to a pair of black leather trousers that had seen a hundred battles. He had two swords on his back. He must be a witcher, she thought. Carrying two swords, like in the stories: one for humans, one for monsters. 

The witcher approached the elder while the townspeople kept their distance. The elder, who had been eagerly waiting for a witcher for at least a fortnight, started speaking at once.

****************

“T’was drowners, master witcher. They infest the ponds, snatched Ol’ Joe from his canoe. Ohhh…” The elder covered his face with his hands and wept. He must have been in his mid-fifties, indeed a venerable age for a peasant in Velen.

“3 orens per drowner.”

“But there are many! Oh, witcher, we are but poor folks. Surely you must understand…”

“I understand you want me to kill many monsters, with claws long as a damned scythe and fast as lightning. 3 orens per drowner.”

The man looked at the witcher, pleading. “But… We don’t have that coin. Master witcher, see us. You can’t expect to become rich of us, we are naught but poor folk…”

The elder wasn’t lying. Wars presented an amazing opportunity for work and coin, just not in Velen, much less in Murkydale. Eskel’s intention had never been to look for work here, but to continue north towards the Pontar. The Redanian army was garrisoned there, and the armies always pay good gold. After all, there is no point in losing soldiers to beasts and necrophages. But he had heard from a trader in Oreton that the Elder of Murkydale was searching for a witcher and the village was on the direction he was heading to, so he decided to head there and take the job anyway.

Murkydale was just a couple of miles west of Oreton. And compared with it, Oreton looked like the City of the Golden Towers. The settlement consisted of no more than ten or twelve houses made of mud and hay, accompanied by a few half derelict barns and surrounded by barren fields sprinkled with withered corn. No, the elder was right. He could not expect to become rich in Murkydale.

“Fine.” – he said sighing - “2 orens per drowner. But you need to give me something else, too. Food, supplies, or whatever you can spare.”

The Elder smiled and assented. “Thank you, thank you master witcher. When are you going to hunt the drowners?”

“The next day it rains, at dusk. It is when the drowners go inland. But I need some supplies first. Do you have an herbalist here? Or a peddler?”

The elder looked around and waved towards a young woman who was standing next to one of the huts. A couple of girls among the villagers giggled and whispered among themselves, wondering if the elder was going give him the harlot for free to thank him for lowering his fee. Eskel started fearing there was a misunderstanding -he needed celandine, not a woman – but remained silent.

The woman approached and curtseyed lightly, looking him at the eyes. Unlike most people, she maintained his gaze. She was a comely young woman, probably in her early twenties, with brown eyes and light brown hair, tied around a headband that was nothing but an old piece of gray linen. She was petite and thin, her body showing the chronic starvation of the peasants of Velen, but she had a pleasant figure. She wore a simple dress of faded blue with a tightly laced bodice and an off-white chemise.

“T’is Maigrit” – said the Elder introducing her – “She’s no herbalist but she knows ‘nough, she learnt from a witch who lived nearby. She’ll bring you to her house. T’is abandoned, you can make camp there.”

“Follow me, master witcher” – she said in a pleasant voice – “House’s two miles away, on the other side o’ the woods”

They left the village from the opposite side. The villagers looked at them with contempt. One spat on the floor. The same girls whispered it was a disgrace to lie with a mutant, even for a harlot. The woman seemed not to hear them, or not to care.

They walked in silence for a while. The woman tucked herself in her cloak, even though it wasn’t cold, and made sure to walk a few steps behind him. He could hear her heart pounding and her nervous breathing. She was afraid of him and Eskel couldn’t blame her. No lass with half a wit would be comfortable walking alone with a strange man off the beaten path, much less in a time of war.

Nonetheless he was bothered by the situation. He really needed some herbs to prepare his potions, but according to the hushed gossip he’d overheard in the village, the lass wasn’t precisely an herbalist. She was probably sent in hopes she’d earn back some of the money they were to pay him. He decided to break the heavy silence between them by testing her.

“I need celandine, berbercane fruit and arenaria. Do you have any of those?”

The woman nodded – “T’is berbercane fruit in the garden. T’is too early for celandine to blossom, but I have some dried from last summer. It’ll do. But no’ arenaria, master witcher. I only have what grows ‘ere. But if it is for the sting that you want it, then I can give you some blowball.”

He looked at her rather surprised. She had some command of the herbalist trade, at least.

“Who taught you herbalism? Was it the witch?”

“T’wasn’t a witch” – the young woman interjected at once – “T’was a wisewoman. She learnt me the letters. And then she learnt me the herbs, potions and concoctions.”

“What happened to her?”

The young woman grew somber. She was silent for a few seconds.

“Velen. Velen happen’d to her, master witcher”

He didn’t answer. Spring had come and war was raging again through Velen. The forces of Redania in the North, the blackcloacks of Nilfgaard in the south. The battles had been fierce and resulted in a draw that had drowned Velen in a state of constant war, drenched in blood, guts and absolute destitution. The province was the poorest in Temeria, completely devoid of natural resources and sparsely populated. Its deprived population tried to make a living in a swamp full of monsters, enduring war, pillages, cold, hunger and disease. Simple and plain misery. People didn’t die in Velen. They were killed by it.

The trail bent to the left around a big rock, after which the small hut of the witch could be seen. Half of the roof had caved in, but what was left stood over the fireplace. The walls and the door were intact, but the house had been ransacked and deprived of anything that looked of value. The garden, however, was well tended to, featuring rows of berbercane fruit, molleybarrow, blowball and sprouting celandine, among others.

The young woman opened the door and went in. Eskel tied the horse’s reins to a post outside and followed her. She opened a cupboard (the only thing left in the hut, apart of a broken table and a couple of chairs) and showed him a cluster of dried celandine flowers, carefully tied together.

“T’is more in the drawers, if you need. Also some fool’s parsley. The berbercane fruit you can take it fresh from the garden. Take what you need from there.”

“Thank you, Maigrit” – he said. 

She assented. Eskel wondered if this was the time when she was going to propose something else, but she remained in silence.

“… If there isn’t anything else you need, master witcher, I’ll better go now”- She said nervously.

“No, that was all. Please, take this.” - he put his hand into his pocket and took out a few coppers – “For the herbs.”

“Nah, keep it. They for free, you deserve them.” – the young woman said walking towards the door– “We paying you shite for those drowners anyways.”

Eskel chuckled. The woman turned and opened the door.

“Do you want me to accompany you back to the village?”

“No need. I am sure you’ll come if I scream.”

She turned her head back and looked him at his eyes, smiling sweetly.

****************

Eskel spent the day brewing potions and oils, not only for the drowners but also some for the path. Necrophage oil, thunderbolt, petri’s philter. Some swallow in case things went south. Drowners weren’t a difficult monster to slay – they were the first monsters young witchers were sent to slew, down by the lake in Kaer Morhen – but they could be dangerous in large groups. And if the elder wasn’t exaggerating, this was a large group.

The day was grey, bleak and rainy, a perfect combination for drowners. Eskel left the hut shortly before dusk and trotted towards the swamps. He dismounted close by and walked through a damp forest, approaching the ponds silently. He didn’t need to get closer to understand why the drowners had nested there. He could smell the clear scent of decay coming from the bloated corpses putrefying under water. They must have been victims of war – soldiers, refugees and unlucky peasants, killed and thrown to the rivers.

Velen truly was a lovely place.

Eskel drew his sword and applied necrophage oil, inspecting the area. He counted six drowners on land, but he couldn’t know if there were more under the black waters. Ah, drowners. They were his specialty. Mean bastards, sure, but dumb as a carp and with a tendency to burn. Killing them was easy, as long as one was careful not to be surrounded and quick enough with the sword. He had perfected an easy but effective method to deal with large packs of drowners using Igni and Yrden.

Eskel approached silently and crunched between a fallen tree and a rock, perfect for protecting his flanks. He casted the sign of Yrden on the floor, stood up and screamed, clinking his sword against the metal plates of his knees. The drowners’ heads turned at once. They stared for a moment and ran towards the witcher, showing their fangs and rising their claws.

Eskel jumped back on the last second. Three drowners got trapped in the Yrden glyph, blocking the path of the other three. The witcher smiled and casted Igni. A hellish firestream emanated from his fingers, setting the shrieking drowners on fire. They twisted and writhed in their pained frenzy, trying to free themselves from the Yrden trap. Eskel, in turn, freed them from their heads with two quick blows of his sword.

He quickly rolled back, getting away from the other three drowners trying to surround him. He threw a quick burst of Igni and attacked, decapitating the first one, then whirling and slashing the last two obliquely. The monsters fell to his feet, inert.

Eskel waited without making a sound, not even changing his position after killing the last monster. The night was silent in the swamp and the waters laid still. He heard no gurgling, no splash, no movement in the water. All the drowners were dead. He cleaned his sword and his jerkin, found some dry wood and started a fire.

He did not sleep that night. Instead, he cut up the drowners, sliced their tongues and carved out their brains. He laid the pieces close to the fire, enough for them to dry but not to smoke or cook – they would be useless if so. He could not carry much, but he planned to keep some pieces as ingredients for his potions and sell the rest to an alchemist, in an effort to compensate for the discount given to the elder.

He trotted into Murkydale the next day around noon. News of his feat had somehow reached the village, which was congregated waiting for him. Eskel dismounted, opened a sac that was hanging from the saddle and threw the heads of the six drowners to the floor, in front of the elder. Some women screeched, some men gasped. The elder was impassible.

“Six drowners. You owe me twelve coins and a meal.”

The elder looked at the severed heads, then at the witcher with pleading eyes – “Oh, but witcher…”

Eskel knew what the elder was trying to do. He stepped forward and stood right in front of the old man.

“Twelve orens.” – he said sternly, staring down at the man with his cat eyes – “And a meal. Warm.”

The man averted his gaze and smiled sheepishly – “Of course, master witcher, of course. Please come to my hut. I will give you ale and some gruel. And your coin, of course.”

****************

The heads of the monsters fell on the floor with a wet thud, their skulls opened and their tongues cut. Several women looked away screeching, but Maigrit didn’t. Drowners just looked like rotten, drowned cadavers. She had seen those, when the swamps flooded, and she had seen drowners as well. Everybody in Velen had and acting like they did not exist would not make them disappear.

The witcher followed the elder into his hut. The rest of the people congregated there walked behind, trying to pry through the window, or approached the drowners’ heads with a mixture of awe and disgust. Maigrit walked towards the path to the wisewoman’s house and left when nobody was looking.

First she picked up some mushrooms. Then she tended to the garden besides the wisewoman’s derelict house. She busied herself watering the celandine, almost dead after the bitter cold of the northern winter, cuting some ribleaf to bring home and plucking out the weeds fighting for space with the babercane fruit. But soon she lost interest and sat in a low tree trunk. She hadn’t come to tend to the garden, but to talk to the witcher. She expected him to be back by now, after receiving his payment and filling his belly with the elder’s wife watered gruel.

“What are you doing here? Obviously, you aren’t tending to the garden” - the rasp, deep voice of the witcher startled her. Maigrit jumped from her sit like a resort, looking agape at him. He was standing not far from her, leaning on the wall of the hut, his arms and legs crossed in a relaxed posture. He wasn’t even looking at her.

“Me… I came to talk to you.” Maigrit almost couldn’t find her words, or her voice.

“You are the girl from the village… Maigrit, correct?”

She assented. They stood silent for a time, while she played nervously with her skirt, fidgeting with the textile between her fingers and he waited patiently for her words.

“Take me to Toussaint, witcher.” – She said finally, not daring look at him.

The witcher chuckled. “Toussaint? Do you even know where this is? It lies south of the Yaruga, way behind Nilfgardiaan lines. Damn, Toussaint _is_ Nilfgaard.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, I have been there, girl.”

“How is it?”

The witcher smiled. Despite the scar that disfigured half of his face, Maigrit thought it was a pleasant, sincere smile.

“It is a…quirky small duchy in a valley tucked between big mountains. The Sansretour river flows from the mountains near the pass, growing bigger and bluer as it crosses Toussaint. The hills and plains of the duchy are covered by grass of emerald green, dotted by small villages and wineries, most of them built over elven ruins. The palace of Bauclair was also originally built by elves and stands magnificent over the highest hill of the valley. No matter where you find yourself in Toussaint, in a clear day you can see it shining in the midday sun.”

She was looking at him, listening intently. “T’is sounds much better than the perpetual greyness and the rotten marshes of Velen.”

The witcher scoffed. “The sky might be bluer, the sun shine brighter and the grass be greener, but things do not change as much as you’d think. Duchess Anna Henrietta is capricious and unstable, prone to explosive changes of mood that most of the times end up with somebody in the gallows. Lords rule the land and peasants work it from sunrise to sunset. Alps, bruxae and katakans feed off the incautious who dare travel at night, while bandits hide in the old elven ruins.”

Maigrit smiled and chuckled below her breath. “Yes. But tell me, master witcher… Where do peasants live a better, easier life? In Toussaint or in Velen?”

The witcher said nothing, still looking at the floor rather than at her. He didn’t have an answer – or rather he did, but he did not want to concede. Toussaint might not be the land of the fairytales, but it was not the nightmare of Velen. Both of them knew that well.

“It doesn’t matter.” – he said at last - “You can’t possibly have enough coin to pay for witcher escort all the way to Toussaint. And you are not witless enough to try to get there by yourself.”

Maigrit lowered her head. She passed her hands over her old kirtle, made of coarse linen of faded color. Too big to have been made for her. She gazed at the frayed cuffs of her chemise and her worn shoes. She felt shame piercing her like a stab in her chest.

“T’is true I don’t have the coin to pay you. But I can work. I can be of use. I will wash your clothes and cook you food, I will care for your wounds and your horse. I will tend to all your needs.”

“I don’t need a maid.”

She stepped forward.

“…All your needs.” 

****************

She really took him by surprise. Eskel felt really confused and embarrassed, but he controlled himself before showing it off. He kept looking at the floor with his back resting on the hut wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

The girl did not strike him as a woman who had ever held the respectable profession of giving pleasure. She was shy and timid and had not offered her services in better, more propitious situations, like the day they met. He even doubted she meant what she was saying. She was not flirty or teasing, trying to display her charms and her… abilities. Instead she stood several feet away, apprehensive and stiff, not even daring to look at him. What was she trying to do? At first he though she had been sent again by the elder to get some of the money back, but in this case, the Toussaint story made no sense. She would have simply offered her services, there and then. He decided to test her.

“Very well. Take off your clothes.”

She lowered her head, utterly ashamed. Utterly confused.

“I want to know I will be receiving my time’s worth. Take off your clothes.”

She stood silent for a moment, thinking, or maybe gathering her strength, who knows. Finally she took a deep breath and removed her bodice and started untying her chemise with trembling hands.

He gazed at her. At first he just wanted to see if she was brave enough, but when she untied her old, worn bodice he noticed she had a pleasant figure. She was petite, but she wasn’t scrawny. He followed with his eyes the lines of her bosom, enhanced by her small waist; and her wide hips and her round bottom, outlined by the rim of her skirt. Her rosy, blushed cheeks. Her innocent expression.

The young woman finished untying her chemise and paused for an instant, aware that she was about to expose her breasts. She tried to look at him, but she didn’t dare meet his eyes. After a moment’s pause, she pursed her lips and let one sleeve slide off her shoulder

“Stop.” – he said averting his gaze – “You have never whored yourself. Not even once in your life. Honestly, I even doubt you have ever been naked in front of a man. Go home, girl.”

Maigrit blushed even more. She tied her chemise and put her bodice back on, but she did not tie it up. Instead she looked at him intently.

“Wait. Hear me out, master witcher. Please.”

She seemed not to know where to start. She paced around nervously while he waited in silence. Finally, she stopped near the fence and was silent for a time, looking at the sunset.

“T’is true I have never ploughed for food or coin.” – she said finally – “But I am willing to do it, now, when it is still my choice to make.”

Eskel raised his eyebrows but said nothing.

“Tell me, master witcher, you who have seen war. You who have travelled around Velen and the other kingdoms. How long until the Bloody Baron’s men come? How long until the soldiers come? A few days? A week? A fortnight? Tell me, master witcher, you who have seen war. What happens to young women like me when the soldiers come?”

He said nothing, he needn’t to. He remembered the ransacked village near White Orchard, but also Breza, Brenna and hundreds of other small, nameless settlements he had cleared of ghouls and rotfiends after the soldiers’ passing. He always approached quietly and closed the doors of the barns before dealing with the monsters in the village. He did that because he did not want to be surrounded by necrophages, and most of them were always inside the barns. It wasn’t because necrophages liked horse shit or eating under a roof. It was because these villages where inhabited mostly by women, as men had gone to war. And the women were always found in the barns. Naked, spread-eagled, with their glossy lifeless eyes looking at nothing while the necrophages ate them.

Those were the lucky ones. He had found the unlucky ones alive, cowering in a corner while holding with clenched fists the rags that once were their dresses. Some screamed hysterically at the presence of a man with a sword. Some looked at him with soulless, broken eyes. Some entered the forest never to go out. Some hanged themselves with their own rags.

Yes, he had seen wars. And he knew what happens to women when the soldiers come.

Maigrit smiled. “Don’t answer, witcher. I know you have seen it. I know you know that the soldiers won’t ask, won’t pay, won’t be kind and courteous. You know they won’t give me a choice, nor an alternative.”

She turned and faced him. “Witcher, this is my choice to make, now that I still can. I know what I request, I know what I offer, and I do it on my free will. Try me out. If you find my presence a burden, my skills useless or myself… unpleasant, leave me. Wherever we are, leave me. In a crossroads, in an inn, in the middle of the forest, in a nekkers’ nest. Leave me there with the conviction that nowhere, nowhere would I face a destiny worse than the one that awaits me here.”

She was right. The Nilfgardiaans were going to arrive soon, in a fortnight or two at the latest. And if not, the Bloody Baron’s men will. He couldn’t say which one of them were worse. But her proposal was… uncommon. As a witcher, he had many times faced decisions of dubious morality, cries and pleas of desperate men. He always imagined what would the other witchers say if they were with him. He liked to think he made these difficult choices with the help of his brothers.

Lambert would have jumped at the offer and the girl, at the same time. He would have taken her to Toussaint (he was a prick, just not a heartless prick) but he would have taken full advantage of the situation. Still, Lambert was not the one he’d ask for advice when troubled by moral dilemmas. Old Vesemir would have refused. Witchers work for coin, and she does not have any. Though sympathetic to the girl’s plight, he wouldn’t have meddled. A witcher must remain neutral, he would have told her. But Eskel had learnt the hard way that there is no such thing as neutrality. He could side with her, or he could side with her destiny. One always takes sides, by action or by omission. There is no such thing as neutrality, for there is no such thing as action without consequence.

His scar throbbed for a moment.

What about Geralt? He had struggled with this conundrum many times, torn apart between his desire to help and his code of neutrality. Geralt once told him that evil is evil. Greater, lesser, is all the same, the distinctions arbitrary and false. If he was to choose between one evil and another, he preferred not to choose at all. Was there, then, a choice to make, one that wasn’t evil? Was there anything else than taking advantage of her or abandon her to her fate?

Eskel thought for a while. He could take her until Vizima. It was well behind Nilfgaardian lines, still suffering the consequences of war but at least in peace. The travel wouldn’t take more than a week, two at most, and he would surely find job on the way or clearing the city’s sewers. Then he could leave her there. The city was teeming with merchants, shops and inns catering to the new, rich Nilfgardiaan lords. She could easily find job as a cook, serving wench or laundry girl. She could start anew in safety and he would not lose time or money.

Eskel sighed and assented.

“Very well. Come back here at midnight. I assume you do not have a horse, so bring only what you can carry.”

Between leaving her and using her, he did not choose at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this is taking speed ;) Thank you for all the kudos! I'd appreciate comments as well. Comments are like cookies, feed the cookie monster!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maigrit leaves her house and starts travelling with Eskel. 10 years later, two magicians discuss her fate... And this of all witchers.

“Where were you?” – Her father’s words sounded more as an accusation than as a question. He was a thin man, not much taller than Maigrit, with the strong arms and the rugged hands of someone accustomed to push a plough through the unyielding soil of Velen. 

He looked at the basket with mushrooms and ribleaf hanging from Maigrit’s arm.

“Of course.” – he scoffed – “You were at the witch’s hut with that mutant.”

Her father clenched his big hands into fists, looked at her for a moment with fiery eyes and turned his back on her. He started pacing around their hut, angrily muttering to himself. Her mother was sitting on one chair, weeping with her face in her palms.

“How could you do this to us?” – she said tearfully – “Isn’t it enough with what they already say about you? Haven’t you done enough to this family?”

Maigrit stood in silence. She could have told the truth – deny all, say that the witcher hadn’t touch her, that they had not even be near each other. But she knew her words were meaningless to them. They would never listen, and if they even did, they would not believe her. Her parents had already decided sin and sinner. Whatever she had to say was meaningless. After all, she had always been meaningless. But she knew it wasn’t so much thinking of her as a prostitute what bothered them, but as a whore. Prostitution had its advantages, mainly in the form of coin. Lewdness had none.

They remained in a standstill for a time, with his father pacing around furiously and her mother weeping softly. Finally, he stopped in front of her and stretched his arm, palm up.

“Have you at least gotten some money?” – his tone clearly indicated not only that he demanded and answer, but the answer he expected to receive – “Give it to me!”

Maigrit lowered her eyes and backed away until her back touched the wall. She denied with her head and answered in a hushed, trembling voice.

“We didn’t…”

“Whore!”

Her father moved his hand quickly and slapped her hard. Maigrit felt his callous hand all over her cheek and her ear and fell on the floor. Her mother wept harder, but she didn’t move from her chair.

“This is over.” – he said, pointing at her with his hand. He was shaking with rage – “I won’t have a mutant’s whore under my roof. I tolerated you because I hoped I could marry you off if I gave you for free. But nobody will want you now. No man will marry a woman soiled by a mutant’s seed.”

Her father picked her up from the floor by her hair and threw her against the wall.

“Listen to me now.” – he said severely, just centimeters away from her face – “You will not leave this house. You will stay inside, and when the peddler comes back, I will sell you to him. What whorehouse he brings you to or if he leaves you with the soldiers, I don’t care. But be sure I would haggle a price as high as possible for you, to ensure that you spend many years on your back with your legs spread to make up for it.”

The rest of the evening went by in silence, only broken by her mother’s soft weeping. Her younger brother came back by dinner time, but he knew better than to ask, or to talk at all. Everybody went early to sleep, her parents in one bed and her brother in the other. She had shared the bed with her brother before, but now she slept on the floor. She had regretted her luck many times, specially during the colder winter nights when the floor was freezing. But not this time.

Maigrit waited patiently until the moon was high in the sky and her family soundly asleep. She woke up quietly and crawled until her brother’s bed. She looked at him for a while, considering whether she should take the risk of kissing him goodbye or not. Her little brother, just ten winters old, but who bravely tried to protect her every time, from her parents, from others, like a Toussainti knight-errant in shinning armor. Of everything she had ever known, or ever had, the only thing she regretted leaving behind. But she couldn’t risk saying goodbye. She only had one chance.

Maigrit reached below her brother’s bed and pulled her satchel out. It was always ready, containing almost everything she owned: a chemise, a dress, a couple of herbalist’s tools and a few orens. She crawled back until the door to the barn, put her cloak on and opened it slowly, making sure the old hinges wouldn’t squeak. She slid through the half opened door and tiptoed until the barn’s back door.

The door faced the fields, just a few feet before the embankment. Maigrit looked around, trying to find where the night guard was. She couldn’t be seen, or the guard would take her and bring her back to her house. She slid down the embankment and ducked between the withered wheat stalks. The guard was at the edge of the town, looking towards the path to the wisewoman’s house, certainly expecting the witcher to come back, maybe kill them all. Maigrit walked crunching towards the woods.

Maigrit stood up in the moment she reached the woods, covered by the trees and the darkness. She looked around, breathing nervously. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear howling and strange noises emanating from inside the thicket. The moon was hidden by the trees, so she would need to rely solely in her orientation and her memory, or she would get lost. Maigrit trembled thinking of her perilous situation, but she knew she could not come back. She meant what she had told to the witcher: whatever destiny expected in front of her would be better than the one expecting her back home. She took a deep breath, pursed her lips and started walking as quickly as she could.

She reached the wisewoman’s hut not long after, almost at midnight. The place was completely silent and surrounded in darkness, without sign of life, or even a small bonfire. The magnificent horse the witcher rode was nowhere to be seen. She approached the door and entered quietly. The small hut was deserted, with nothing but the old chair, the table and the rotting cupboard. The embers of the bonfire were already grey and cold. 

The witcher had left.

Her heart started to pound like it was going to jump out of her chest, breathing became difficult and for a moment she thought she was going to faint. She put her palms on the table and bent trying to catch her breath. What was she going to do? All options led to pain, all options led to death. There were some who would have come back home, accepted her destiny, and be sold expecting this would save their lives. But she was not witless. She knew she would probably die, of starvation, of disease, in the hands of a client. She couldn’t just leave by herself either; walking alone in Velen during a time of war was akin to suicide.

But first and foremost, Maigrit was angry with herself. For being so stupid as to trust a witcher, so naïve as to think her plan might work. So brazen as to believe she could outwit destiny, that she could somehow take control and undo the threads of fate the Crones had already weaved for her. But even if she should, she couldn’t stop fighting. She clenched her fists and tried to hold her tears. She wanted to cry, she wanted to surrender. She wanted to rest and not fight anymore, abandon herself to her destiny in a resigned bliss. But she couldn’t, she never did. Something inside herself impelled her to fight, to stand until the very end. 

Maigrit was lost in her thoughts when she felt something touching her shoulder. She turned around quickly, reaching for the knife she always had on her belt. She barely touched the handle with her fingers before a strong hand gripped her arm firmly. It was the witcher, standing barely a few centimeters in front of her.

“You are fast. For a human.” – he said in a raspy, metallic voice. Now that he was right in front of her, she noticed how tall and strong he was compared to her. She couldn’t make his features in the darkness of the hut, but his eyes shone like those of a cat.

Maigrit could not stop looking at his fiery, eerie eyes, shinning like embers in the dark. The witcher stared at her, but he did not say anything else nor did he release her arm. Her body tensed with anxious anticipation. Would he make her bend over the table, hold her fast and demand his payment? Would he chop and slice her, cut and dice her, like in the old lullaby? Did it even matter? She had no choice and no way to escape. Her body started to relax as she yielded to the witcher’s desires, whatever they might be.

The witcher let go of her arm and walked out. “Follow me.” – he said.

He whistled softly for his horse, who appeared at once and came to the witcher in a quiet, slow gait. He mounted and looked down at her.

“You will walk next to the horse. We are leaving now, hold the horse’s collar or you will get lost in the dark.”

Maigrit nodded and held the horse’s leather collar. She was afraid of walking the roads at night – it was madness, complete madness – but she could not argue with the witcher. She did not want to be left behind.

The witcher spurred the horse and they started walking in silence into the swamp. It was a clear, full moon night. If she looked back, she could have seen the dim lights of the few torches that illuminated Murkydale. She could have seen the roof of her house, the trees where she played fortress as a kid, the fields she worked from dawn to dusk. If she looked back, she could have seen all she had ever had, and all she had ever known.

She didn’t look back.

**************** 

She wasn’t annoying or loud, it wasn’t that. Neither was she rude, difficult, or unpleasant. She had barely uttered a few sentences, and when she spoke she did it softly, almost in a hushed voice, addressing him politely. No, it wasn’t her what irritated Eskel. It was her presence. He had been walking the path for over half a century, with no other companion than his horse. The sound of other footsteps, of a breathing, of her heart, all these small nuances broke the silent song he had long grown accustomed to and annoyed him out of his mind.

She had tried to start a conversation a few times. First, she asked his name, to what he simply replied “Eskel” and nothing more. She looked at him for a moment, but she quickly understood he wasn’t interested in chatting. After a while she asked him where he was from. He simply said “Kaedwen” in a tone that made clear he was not interested in casual conversation.

A few hours passed before the young woman tried again one last time. She turned back to look at him and smiled shyly.

“So… How did you become a witcher? Was your father witcher too?” – she asked in a soft voice.

He could have told her witchers are given as children to their schools, that he was an orphan, or that he was sent to Kaer Morhen so young he did not even remember. He could have simply said no. But this time he started laughing, heartily and loudly. 

The young woman stared at him bewildered.

“You… - he said, still chuckling – I cannot believe it.”

“… Believe what, master witcher?” – she said in a trembling voice.

“That you are willing to let me plough you without even knowing witchers can’t sire children.”

She lowered her eyes flustered and turned her gaze back to the road. Even in the dead of the night, Eskel could see her perfectly anyway, hear her heart and her breathing. He noticed how her shame quickly turned to anger, the blush of her cheeks turning into a frown. She did not talk again, nor did she even look at him for the rest of the night.

Eskel was irritated by her reaction. He had agreed to take her with him, and he was going to escort her to Vizima safely and in one piece. He was doing it for free, and even if he was to demand payment from her, nobody would have accepted to cross a war zone just to save up a few orens in a brothel. He wasn’t going to do anything else than bring her to Vizima, less of all entertain her like some sort of mutated bard.

Even though they had travelled for hours without rest, Eskel decided not to stop at dawn. The woman needed to prove she could endure the long, exhausting journey on the path. She could either go on or go home. he wasn’t willing to spend any longer than what was strictly necessary on this contract.

They kept walking until the sun was high in the sky. The young woman did not complain or even asked why they weren’t stopping. In fact, she didn’t even look at him or talk at all. Eskel could hear her steps becoming heavier, her body hunching over. Sometimes she closed her eyes and dozed for a second, still walking. But she did not complain. Seeing her like this, Eskel couldn’t avoid regretting his actions during the night. She had always been kind to him. She brought him to the witch’s house and gave him the herbs for free, even though these few orens he had offered for them might have looked like a small fortune to her. She had simply tried to make some polite conversation during the long hours on the road, and she couldn’t know the mutations make witchers sterile. She surely had been concerned by the frightening possibility of ending in Toussaint unmarried, coinless and pregnant with a vagrant’s child. It occurred to him that he was punishing her only because she was there and he wasn’t accustomed to her presence. He was no different than the innkeepers who scoffed at him, or the townspeople who simply didn’t want him there.

“Let’s stop and rest.” – he said finally, when it was almost noon – “Below those trees, next to the stream.”

**************** 

Maigrit sat on a small rock next to the stream, took off her shoes and slowly unwrapped the bandage off her feet. Aloe vera and shea buckthorn, as the wisewoman taught her. It kept the skin moist and avoided blisters no matter how much you walked. And they had walked a lot. Every single muscle of her body ached, her head throbbed and she was sure her legs were about to fall off.

Maigrit pulled up her skirt until her thighs and submerged her legs into the stream. She smiled in relief and closed her eyes, feeling the cold water numbing her legs and easing her pain. Exhausted and numb, she forgot for a moment she wasn’t alone. When she opened her eyes again, she saw the witcher looking at her. She reached instinctively for her skirt to cover herself, but she didn’t pull it down. It was ridiculous to act prudishly given the terms of their arrangement. The witcher looked away and busied himself starting a small bonfire.

Maigrit approached the bonfire a while later, attracted by the smell of roasted onions. The witcher handed her one and they ate in silence, barely looking at each other. Maigrit was simply too tired to be angry, but she hadn’t gotten over the witcher’s behavior. He had been silent at best, boorish and dismissive at worst. She did not expect him to be an errant knight like in the tales of Toussaint, but she had hoped he would be at least kind to her.

“Roll out the sheepskins close to the fire.” – the witcher said, not even looking at her.

Maigrit took the sheepskins from the horse’s saddlebags, rolled them out next to each other and sat on one of them. The witcher started unbuckling the belts that held his swords on his back. Her heart started racing. She wondered if he was going to be gentle, or harsh as his words were. If it was going to last long, or hurt. But above all she wondered what to do. The witcher had guessed right: she was inexperienced, very inexperienced, but she couldn’t risk being unpleasant, clumsy or cold, or the witcher would leave her behind.

The witcher laid his swords on the other sheepskin and kneeled in front of them, resting his palms over his knees. Maigrit shivered when he looked at her, but maintained his gaze. His face was inscrutable yet this time his eyes were the same kind, warm eyes that had looked at her when they first met alone, in the wisewoman’s hut. The ones that made Maigrit instinctively trust him.

“Lay down, try to sleep” – he told her with his raspy voice – “We need to keep going”.

“Aren’t you… going to sleep too?” – She said softly.

The witcher denied with his head – “No, too risky, this swamp is full of monsters. I will meditate. It is like being half sleeping and half awake. But you – he said, this time with a faint smile in his lips – just sleep tight. I will protect you.”

Maigrit smiled and laid on her side. She covered herself with her cloak and with her face just centimeters away from the witcher’s body, she felt asleep almost immediately. And for the first time in many years, she felt safe. 

**************** 

The silk skirt caressed the floor as she paced around, filling the room with a soft rustling whisper.

“The theoretical approach is sound and I worked on the formulae for over a decade. We just need the test subjects.”

“You seem too confident in your research” – Even though his voice was warped by the megascope, she could clearly hear his sneering tone – “You have tested your formulae only once, and it was a disaster.”

She stared with contempt at the distorted form in the megascope and crossed her arms over her chest.

“A touchy subject, I see” – he said smiling.

“You are mistaken, my dear friend. I did not test these formulae. I tested others, based on the research I did on the witcher potions stolen from Kaer Morhen.”

“Another disaster.”

“Yes. Yours.”

The man sighed and passed his hand over his grey hair. He fell silent for a moment, trying to find his words - “The war… We saw the perfect opportunity, with the scoia’tael so close to Vizima and king Foltest out commanding his troops. There were supposed to be only three witchers and one young recruit. We did not expect Triss Merigold or Geralt to be in the keep, so we did not account for them when we decided how many men to send. We… rushed it.”

She scoffed – “Of course you did. Men always rush everything, seizing each opportunity without thinking twice. Without preparation. Without strategy. If you’d have thought twice, you would have noticed that the witcher potions have changed over time. Each school has its own formula, and none of them is the original one. Besides, the potions are not enough. One needs to know what each ingredient is for, the mutation it would produce and the outcome intended. You are a mutationist as well, you should have known better. But as usual, your arrogance took the best of you.”

The figure in the megascope frowned – “Well, at least they can’t make new witchers, Kaer Morhen is nothing but rubble and this old witcher, Vesemir, is long dead. None of the last three poor miscreants left in the school of the Wolf have any idea of how to recreate the formulas, nor do they seem to intend to. Yet - he sighed – here we are, needing at least one of them for our experiments. This, if I remember correctly, was your job. Have you secured a witcher, my dear friend?”

“I am about to secure two.”

“Two?" – he said raising his eyebrows – "Surprising. I assume none of them is Geralt?”

“You assume correctly. Geralt is so up Yennefer’s skirt that she will surely notice if one night he happens not to be between her legs. And we both know he can be… disagreeable. No, I am interested in the other two.”

“So, you want the one with the hideous scar and the one with the hideous personality?”

“Have you had the pleasure?” – she said inquisitively.

The man nodded – “I visited Keira Metz last year, in her house. He was there, although I think their romance ended shortly after.”

“It did. Explosively. They are in no speaking terms, which means Keira will not notice his absence. As for the other… He has always kept his good distance from kings, magicians, noblemen or anybody in power. He has never been nothing but a vagrant. My men are securing the subjects as we speak.”

“May I inquire how do your…associates plan to get hold of these two witchers? Vagrant, illiterate or monstrous, do not forget: they were bred to kill, and kill they do well.”

“The younger one loses himself in a barrel of mahakaman spirit every second night. Six able men are enough to take a piss drunk witcher. But I am not specially interested in him; I will use him to refine the formulae and I do not expect him to survive the process. My interest and hopes lie in the other one, the one with the scar. He will come by himself, and he will do so willingly. He will submit to me, obliging and compliant. I am certain of his full collaboration.”

The man in the megascope stared at her agape, moving his mouth as if he was trying to find the right words.

“I… I am… truly astounded by this affirmation. What makes you think you’ll have his full obedience?”

The woman grinned with an evil smile – “Because I have something, or rather someone, he’d do anything for.”

The man’s laugh echoed through the megascope– “A woman? Witchers are cold, devoid of any emotion. For him she is nothing but a random whore.”

“Oh, please” – she said with a disdainful smile – “You know this isn’t true, not for the witchers of the School of the Wolf, nor any others I can think of. And it is certainly not true of this witcher and this woman. Trust me, I have seen it myself. He will come for her. And he will obey. With the witcher and magic, we will create the army we have so long dreamed for.”

“Our magic?”

She pierced him with her cold blue eyes and grinned – “No, my friend. Not ours.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic ever! I do not have a beta reader and I am not a native speaker of English. All comments and feedback would be appreciated :)


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